


Chewing on Glass

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Only Truth We Know [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Steve Rogers, Hidden Pasts, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Minor Violence, POV Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve is fucking furious, Swearing, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-30 18:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12658983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: For the better part of two hours, Hydra had delighted in torturing Bucky in front of him, strapping him down and securing that fucking metal ring over his head, bruising, beating, and bloodying him while Steve remained powerless to stop it. Bucky’s screams rang in his ears, all the louder for their soul-crushing silence. Steve’s gaze traveled from the vacant chair to the blood trailing across the floor, disappearing beneath the metal door. Another rivulet of his own blood trickled from his hairline and down the side of his face.“Captain. How nice of you to join us.”Steve raised his head, blood thick and salty at the edges of his lips. He spat at the handler, fantasizing about the moment he got free and beat that smirk off the man’s face. Better: he’d shove him in the cryotube, set it to freeze, then shatter the glass, watching him slowly suffocate.Yeah, that’d be real nice.***Companion chapters toTell Me Nothing But Lies.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter fits between Chapters Seven and Eight of [Tell Me Nothing But Lies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12200094/chapters/27703626).

Pain sparkled along his nerves from wrist to ankle, agony leaving his throat dry as the acrid taste of electricity filled his mouth. Every time he moved, the shackles bit into his skin, sending another current racing through his veins. Even breathing too deeply resulted in disaster, but when Steve raised his head and found the chair beyond the window empty, his pulse ratcheted, heart hammering against his ribs from a different brand of agony. 

For the better part of two hours, Hydra had delighted in torturing Bucky in front of him, strapping him down and securing that fucking metal ring over his head, bruising, beating, and bloodying him while Steve remained powerless to stop it. Bucky’s screams rang in his ears, all the louder now for the soul-crushing silence. Steve’s gaze traveled from the vacant chair to the blood trailing across the floor, disappearing beneath the metal door. Another rivulet of his own blood trickled from his hairline and down the side of his face. 

Scrabbling for purchase, Steve braced himself against the wall and pulled, desperate to wrench the bolts holding his shackles out of the wall. A higher voltage coursed through him, scorching his skin and rattling his teeth, plunging him straight down into darkness.

*

The next time Steve woke, the room beyond was still empty, but someone else occupied his cell. He watched the shadow from the corner of his eye, praying Bucky had escaped, made his way back to Steve, and had a plan to annihilate the sadistic fucks who’d trapped them both.

“Captain,” the shadow spoke, that voice twisting Steve’s gut. “How nice of you to join us.”

Steve raised his head, blood thick and salty at the edge of his lips. He spat at the handler, fantasizing about the moment he got free and beat that smirk off the man’s face. Better: he’d shove him in the cryotube, set it to freeze, then shatter the glass, watching him slowly suffocate. Yeah, that’d be real nice. A bargain might work in the meantime; any measure of freedom would make Steve lethal. “Let him go. You can take me instead.”

The handler stepped forward, a thin smile pinned to his narrow face. “Tsk, tsk. What good is bargaining when we already have you both?” He inclined his head toward the now vacant room. “Aren’t you enjoying the show?”

Straining against his bonds, Steve straightened, taking the electroshocks in stride. “Go to hell.” Another jolt tore through him and he gritted his teeth against the onslaught, refusing to let this man have the pleasure of hearing him scream. 

“Manners, Captain,” he chided.

“Go to hell, you sick son of a bitch.”

Steve barely clenched his jaw before the electricity shredded his nerves. This torment didn’t compare to what Buck had suffered; Steve could handle this much.

One of the monitors flickered on, and the handler inclined his head, suddenly congenial. “I think you’ll find this next part particularly interesting.” He gestured toward the screen. “For your viewing pleasure.”

Mentally, Steve prepared himself for whatever they’d done to Bucky. His brain filled with images of him broken and bleeding, or frozen in stasis, the ice clinging to his eyelashes, that precious, heart-melting smile Bucky had finally gotten back cold and still and forgotten. Darker thoughts crept along the edges; Bucky on a surgical slab, missing limbs. Worst of all, Bucky laying still, his eyes open but empty, his body alive but his mind gone.

He didn’t expect to see Clint striding along the tunnel, arrow nocked. Relief fluttered in his chest. As long as Clint remained unseen, he’d have backup. They could take down Hydra together and get Bucky back. As he watched, the footage flickered, showing Clint walking past the guards without interference.

The handler changed the input, the screen filled with static images instead. “Mr. Barton has been quite useful these past few day, has he not?”

Steve didn’t answer, watching the film roll. Grainy black and white photos of bodies—assassinations, he realized—flashed across the screen.

“I must admit, I was taken aback in the alleyway. I did not think he’d be able to control the asset so well. Impressive, wasn’t it?”

“Not sure ‘impressive’ is the word I’d choose,” Steve snapped. No one had been more surprised (and horrified) than Clint. It took him hours to come down from the resulting panic attack.

“No?” The handler frowned. “You’re a difficult man to surprise.”

Steve smiled, all sharp edges and violence. “Let me down and I’ll show you just how surprising I can be.” 

“Eyes on the monitor, Captain. Wouldn’t want to miss anything crucial, now, would we?” 

The tingling promise of another shock buzzed at his wrists and Steve glanced back to the screen. Another assassination, followed by security camera snapshot. The lobby of a hotel, the man from the previous image stepping into an elevator. The next photo, timestamped two minutes after, captured a man headed toward the stairs. Even in the low quality image, Steve recognized Clint’s build and stride.

“No,” Steve whispered, biting the word.

“No what, Captain Rogers?” the other man asked, voice light.

Steve made out a broken object in the corner of another photograph—an arrow fletching.

“This is bullshit,” Steve said, locking his gaze with the handler’s. Fury burned in his gut, spilling molten into his blood. “You’re stalling. One way or another, I’m going to rip these shackles off the wall, and then I’m gonna rip your fucking throat out.”

The other man tilted his head. “Are you certain your issue lies with me?”

“Pretty damn certain,” Steve growled. 

The next image appeared innocuous enough: Clint favoring his left arm. Steve’s eye caught what looked like a syringe holstered to Clint’s thigh, but the timestamp in the corner took that wavering hope and crushed it. 

Months ago, Clint had broken off plans with Bucky and showed up a couple days later with his arm broken. He hadn't gone into specifics, claiming he'd fallen off a building and into a dumpster (which, for Clint, summed up a regular Monday night). 

The readout on the screen said Belarus, not Brooklyn.

Steve drew in a deep breath through his nose, jaw clenched. It was no secret that Clint had been one of SHIELD’s snipers, had served the Avengers in the same role. The film kept rolling, filled now with mission reports: the heads of two opposing cartels in Marrakech, a Columbian peacekeeper, a resistance leader in Latveria. 

Each report bore the same name, the same script. 

_C. Barton._

Steve knew that signature, knew only one _C. Barton_. Betrayal left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, pooling beneath the roiling flood of rage. 

The handler laughed, quiet and bemused. “Not so unimpressed now, are you?”

“You’re a fucking liar.” He balled his fists, straining against the shackles around his legs. Gaining leverage meant getting out, enough to bend the metal and free his hands. He let the voltage fuel his anger.

“Am I? What have I to gain by deceit?”

“What do you gain telling me the truth?”

He smiled, and the screen changed to another camera somewhere inside the station. Whatever hope Steve felt at seeing Bucky died when the shot expanded. Bucky stood, docile, across from Clint, baring the familiar posture of the Soldier. Slowly, Clint turned to face the camera, a nasty grin spreading over his face, all teeth and bite and smug bravado. He raised his gun and fired. The monitor went black.

Where a moment ago he’d envisioned the horrible things Hydra could be subjecting his love to, now Steve’s thoughts flooded with doubt, with something far worse than he’d expected. 

Clint had slipped into their lives seamlessly. As much as he’d become a fixture, what did they really know about Clint, other than his involvement with the Avengers and SHIELD? He never spoke of his past, of his family, of anything. And yet.

And yet Clint knew just about everything about them. Bucky spoke about Brooklyn, about the war, about things he hadn’t even told Steve, but Steve had championed Buck’s friendship with Clint, knowing there were things he couldn’t understand no matter how hard he tried. Shared experience had given Bucky stability. 

But Clint had controlled Bucky, even if he hadn’t wanted to. He’d lied about a mission. An assassination. Steve shook his head, trying to get that shark smile out of his mind. Clint had Bucky, but instead of relief, Steve felt sick. Clint had worked for SHIELD _and_ STRIKE, and both had been consumed by Hydra . . .

“No,” Steve snapped, the metal around his legs groaning as he pulled the bolts from the wall.

The handler stepped back, arms spread. “Now you know what I gain. After all, why break the asset when he’d come willingly with his best friend?” He slithered from the room, leaving Steve in the dark, the only light filtering in through the glass. 

Electricity bit through his uniform, searing flesh as Steve finally freed himself from the restraints. The band around his chest snapped, followed by the shackles around his wrists. He felt the serum go to work, repairing the damage to his limbs, but failing to lessen the pain. He'd lived with pain his entire life; he knew how to harness it.

A lone guard stood at the door; Steve bashed his head into the wall, leaving the body in the threshold. There was no mercy for Hydra. Snatching his shield from the corner, he stalked out into the hall, bent on tracking down the handler and ending him on his way to finding Bucky. A dozen scenarios marched through Steve’s mind as he entered the hall. Whatever he decided, he’d make it slow and painful. 

But even as he left a trail of dead Hydra agents, even as he envisioned all that beautiful revenge against the men who’d harmed the man he loved, that nagging little seed of doubt crept in, the hurt and fear tangling up, slinking and sticking between his ribs like knives. He hadn’t known Clint before the alien invasion and the Loki incident, nor had he spent much time with him after. Natasha had been his closest friend in those days, but she’d vouched for him, so Steve didn’t bat an eye when Clint volunteered to help him protect Bucky or when Clint reached out offering solidarity.

That Bucky and Clint had taken to each other almost instantly didn’t surprise him either, but now he found himself searching for the cracks, the little inexplicable things he may have overlooked.

Steve shook his head, putting down another squadron of Hydra thugs. Clint had never once given him reason to doubt. Hydra would do anything to undermine him, to gain the upper hand. If Steve devoted his fury to fighting Clint, Hydra could have their way with their asset. 

But where the fuck were they? He’d doubled back at some point, but had seen neither Clint nor Bucky. They were together, or at least they had been. Steve’s heart raced, the adrenaline and anger making him dizzy. He couldn't quite silence the little voice in the back of his head screaming that he’d missed something, that just because Buck and Clint were together didn’t mean Buck was out of danger. That, somehow, Clint had slipped beneath the wire.

Steve suddenly found himself remembering Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE team. He’d gotten to know them, too, had let them into his life, considered them friends. Opening up to people in this new, unwelcome century felt like a betrayal, but despite his mile-wide death wish, Steve started to try. 

And in return, he’d gotten a full-out assault on an elevator, a manhunt, and more than one assassination attempt. That hurt inside grew stronger, edging out the anger. No. Rumlow had gotten close because Steve hadn’t expected it. He’d believed Hydra dead when he put the Valkyrie in the water, snuffed out by his sacrifice. 

The whole thing struck him as absurd, even as his heart sank. Clint would never. 

Could he?

The ground beneath his feet trembled, heralding the blast the shook the rest of the tunnel a moment later. Steve took off at a run, the ceiling beginning to collapse. He needed to find Bucky _now_. The tremors grew worse as he raced toward the room they’d held him in, chunks from the walls sliding into his path, striking against the shield. If the wall collapsed entirely-

He’d barrel through the fucking wall if he had to. Someone stumbled through; it may have taken Steve longer than he’d admit to realize it was Clint falling to the ground. His pulse ratcheted higher because wherever Clint was, Bucky usually followed. And maybe his heart lodged in his throat when Bucky slid out from under the rubble, metal arm protecting Clint’s head but not his own. Steve skidded across the floor on his knees, bracing the shield between the debris and Bucky, the last of the station collapsing in on itself.

A whimper caught Steve’s attention. “Did we make it?” Clint mumbled.

Bucky glanced up—and Steve nearly choked around the heart in his throat to see that it was _Bucky_ —before patting Clint’s cheek, the ghost of a smile on his face. “This time.”

Clint offered a weak, “Oh good,” his eyes roaming over Steve’s face before the lids fell shut. Dust and blood matted his hair, his tac gear torn in places by bullets or blades. Dark bruises blossomed on his cheek and what Steve saw of his shoulder.

“Barton, don’t do this,” Bucky said, right hand hovering by Clint’s head. “Hang on.”

Clint opened his eyes, struggling to focus. Steve knew he should be concerned; Clint’s injuries required medical attention, but other than making sure Buck survived unscathed, Steve found it difficult to care about the other blond. Suspicion gnawed at him, and much as Steve hated to admit it, that seed of doubt had cracked and sprouted.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mirrors chapter eight of [Tell Me Nothing But Lies.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12200094/chapters/28950756)  
> *This chapter may not be as well edited as usual because I've been up since 4am and it's 10.40pm when I'm posting this and I am _tired_. There may be minor edits tomorrow. Content remains the same. ;)

Steve’s heart shattered at the panic in Bucky’s eyes, the way he couldn’t bring himself to touch his friend, the way he kept staring at his own hands, the bruises and the blood. Beneath that terror, Steve saw the memory of Project Insight, the battle on the helicarrier, the horrible moment when Bucky came back to himself, at least enough to recognize Steve almost too late. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and held him tight, desperate to ease his pain if Steve couldn’t take it on himself. Bucky relaxed a moment before pushing away.

Steve couldn’t see any injuries beyond Bucky’s split lip and bruised face, but he didn’t hold still long enough for Steve to check. They needed to get home. He stroked Bucky’s hair, voice soft. “Buck, we have to go.”

Bucky shook his head, refusing to stand. “We have to get him to a hospital, Steve. We have to. They have to fix him. He’s bleeding and it’s my fault and-” Bucky’s voice faltered, cracked. 

Gently, Steve cupped his hand against Bucky’s jaw, turning his head. “I know. We’ll get him to a hospital. You have to stand up, and we have to keep moving.”

He coaxed Bucky to his feet, that haunted look etched on his face as he wrapped his arms around himself, shrinking back. “It’s my fault. I did this to him,” he whispered. 

Steve reached out, hands on Bucky’s shoulders, praying for some measure of comfort. He knew Bucky better than he knew himself, and if Steve couldn’t get him moving, focused on the next task, Bucky would spiral faster than he could prevent.

“I won’t blame him, if he never speaks to me again. I deserve it. Now he knows I’m a goddamn menace, and I can’t fault him for hating me.”

Clint. Steve took opportunities when he saw them. Bucky needed to get Clint help, but couldn’t touch him, and yeah, maybe part of Steve considered leaving Clint there (not that he could justify it), but his priority—his only priority—was getting Bucky out, keeping him safe. So he did what he had to: he picked the archer up.

“I don’t think Clint hates you,” Steve said, soothing, trying to keep his voice even as alarm bells rang in his head. He spoke the truth he knew: “None of this was your fault.” Bucky opened his mouth, but Steve kept on. “I know. We’ll get him to the hospital. Grab my shield.” Bucky didn’t move, and Steve longed to touch him. “Buck, we’ll get him help, I promise, but then we have to go home. We have to keep moving, sweetheart.”

Mechanically, Bucky nodded and gathered the shield and Clint’s bow, holding the latter to his chest like a talisman, a token. Darkness crouched outside when they emerged, thick and perfect cover as they moved. Steve caught the hitch in Bucky’s breath, the halt in his step, knew what equally dark thoughts stalked through his head.

He backtracked, shifting Clint’s weight to free a hand to reach for Bucky’s—his right—and press it to the pulse point in Clint’s throat. “He’s still alive, Buck. We’re going to the hospital. He’ll be okay.” Bucky’s hand dropped, but his panic didn’t lessen. Steve tried again. “I know it’s hard, but you have to focus on the mission. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes. Get him to the hospital,” Bucky said, deadpan, and fear flared bright behind Steve’s sternum at the sound. But Bucky was Bucky, even struggling against his anxiety, and Steve’s own tension eased as Bucky’s breath became steadier.

Until they neared the hospital and the ambulance port. Until the mission became unclear.

“Okay, so what,” Bucky said. “We ask the desk nurse to take him in? What the hell do we do?”

“We’re gonna have to leave him here,” Steve answered. “Fewer cameras, less chance of being seen.”

Eyes wide, Bucky went pale. “We can’t just abandon him, Steve. He’s bleeding out, and his ribs are broken, and he needs to be _in_ the hospital, not outside it.”

Steve pressed close. “I’m not going to drop him and walk away, Buck. I’ll knock at the door, I’ll say someone’s hurt, and I’ll leave.”

Bucky began to unravel, but he nodded, closing his eyes. 

Opportunities. Steve put as much distance as he could between himself and Bucky (hard enough, carrying someone who may have betrayed them, who had the power to hurt Bucky in the worst way), but leaving _Bucky_ , alone and anxious, could kill him outright. Before either of them lost their nerve, Steve made for the door. 

Dredging up his willpower, he set Clint down gently before searching him for weapons. He took the knife, a few arrowheads, and his sidearm, stashed them away, and then struck the door with his fist.

“Hey, we need some help out here,” Steve called, pounding on the window instead. More noise, louder. Footsteps shuffled inside, and he was up and racing back to Bucky, gathering him close as soon as he stood within arm’s reach.

He pushed against Bucky’s shoulders, trying to steer him toward home, but Bucky kept his eyes on Clint. “Why is no one coming?”

“I’m sure they’re on their way. We have to go now.” 

Bucky refused to move. “No. I have to make sure they take him. I can’t leave him here, Steve.” He shoved Steve’s hands from his shoulders but didn’t let go. “They have to admit him.” Bucky pulled him forward again, tucking his head below Steve’s chin as he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “I can’t leave him.”

Steve smoothed Bucky’s hair, pressing a kiss to his crown. Of course Bucky couldn’t leave Clint. For most of his life, Buck had been all Steve had, his best friend, his constant, and he knew what having Bucky as a friend meant. He knew what it meant to be Bucky’s friend. Even if Steve didn’t feel quite the same about Clint, he knew Bucky’s heart hadn’t changed. Clint was Bucky’s best friend, and Buck needed, more than safety, to know someone would take care of him.

And Steve held him, kept him close, until at last a nurse opened the ambulance entry, started, and motioned back inside. Bucky let out a shaking breath as two more nurses came outside, a gurney between them, and collected Clint. 

“They’re going to take care of him, Buck,” Steve whispered. “We’re going to go home now, and I’m going to take care of you.”

Bucky’s voice sounded small, full of hurt and guilt. “I don’t wanna leave him.”

“I know, sweetheart, but there’s nothing you can do for him right now. We got him here and that’s what matters. The doctors will do their job.”

Bucky held Steve tighter. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Steve answered, gently coaxing Bucky into motion. The serum allegedly made Steve difficult to kill, but Bucky suffering was a knife to the heart every time, a wound Vita-Rays and magic potions failed to heal. 

 

* 

 

Steve locked the apartment door behind him and turned up the heater. Usually, he’d marvel that it was that simple, that he could press a button and make their home warm, that they didn’t have to bury themselves beneath a dozen threadbare blankets (Bucky didn’t have to _bury_ him; Buck had gone without to keep Steve warm), but where Steve’s heart soared at everything they no longer worried about, instead it sank in his chest for the way Bucky stood motionless.

The way Bucky let Steve shed his armor, unstrap the vest, remove his BDUs. The way Steve’s hands roamed over Bucky’s skin, searching for wounds, desperate for the knowledge that his heart remained intact. Most of the damage had already begun to knit, to undo itself. To add to the collection of scars and give Steve something new to worship because every part of Bucky was sacred, precious, and he’d never take that warm body, that beating heart, that brilliant man for granted. 

But Bucky shivered, the cold settled into his bones despite the heat. Steve pulled the blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around him, settled him on the soft cushions and knelt before him.

“This is all my fault,” Buck said, weary. “I should have known better. I should have stopped it.”

Steve splayed his fingers against Bucky’s cheeks, brushing his thumbs along his cheekbones. “It is not your fault. You are not responsible for what Hydra made you do. You are not responsible for what happened with Clint.”

Bucky shrank back, and Steve’s heart broke all the more for it, the anguish on his face a memory of what he’d hoped he’d banished long ago. “How can you say that? How can I _believe_ that, knowing I did the same thing to you?”

“Because you did all the right things afterward, Buck. The therapy helped. You resisted the trigger words, remember?”

Bucky’s breath came faster, resignation settling into him. “But who knows how many sleeper codes are in my head, Steve? We’ll never dismantle all of them. I’ll never be normal, or as close to normal as a guy with a fucking metal arm can get. I can’t trust my mind, I can’t trust my body. Reworking my muscle memory didn’t help me. Violence is in my bones, Steve. It’s what I am.” 

“That is not _who_ you are,” Steve corrected, still calm somehow despite his racing heart, the fear churning his stomach. “You’ve survived a nightmare.”

“I am the nightmare.”

“No, sweetheart.” Steve sat beside him, pulling Bucky against his chest as if physical contact could derail this godawful train, could keep him whole. “You’re strong. You’re kind, and funny, and if I could take all the pain away, if I could take it _for_ you, I would. You deserve to be happy, Bucky. You deserve to be loved. And if you can’t love yourself, then I’ll love you enough for both of us.” He rubbed his fingers against Bucky’s scalp, working his way toward his neck. “I know you’re upset, but I’m sure,” and he couldn’t quite mask the trip in his voice, the ghost of trust and friendship and the creeping shadow of doubt. “I’m sure Clint doesn’t hate you. You did everything right, Buck.”

Bucky leaned into him. Steve knew, before the words lingered between them, spoke aloud and undeniable for all their suffering, that he’d been here, staring down at the man he loved, desperate to grab his hand and cling. He’d failed, that first time. Hell, he’d failed the second, but he’d never deny Bucky the choice. Still, Steve reached, praying he could catch Bucky’s hand and hold fast.

“I shouldn’t have come out of the ice. The safest place for everyone I love is away from me. I’m a liability.”

His breath choked out of him as he held Bucky tighter. There was only one answer, had always been one. Steve would raze the world on Bucky’s whim. He’d freeze it, too. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “I’ll need a couple of day to make arrangements, but that won’t be too hard.”

Bucky’s pulse faltered under Steve’s hand. “I can’t ask you do that.”

“You didn’t ask. I can’t lose you again, and living without you is hell. It’s both of us or nothing.”

And that stubborn jerk, Steve’s whole heart and soul, had the nerve to argue. “But there’s a place for you here. The world needs you. You can’t sacrifice everything for me.”

Steve almost laughed, a dry humorless sound for what had always been obvious, back in Brooklyn, before the war, after, now. “Bucky, _you’re_ my everything. You’re the reason I took up the shield and the reason I put it down. I’d do anything for you.” He’d hold tight, and if he couldn’t pull Bucky to safety, well.

Well, Steve would fall, too. As long as they were together. 

“We’ll go back to Wakanda. I’ll call T’Challa in the morning and ask if he’s willing to put us both up.” 

Bucky rubbed his nose against Steve’s chest. “You sure?”

“Never been more sure in my life,” Steve answered. He meant it: wherever Bucky went, he’d follow. “Can you hold out while I take care of a few things?” Bucky nodded, tears falling onto Steve’s arm. “Okay. Good.” Not that Steve knew where to begin. “It’s been a very long, very bad day. Do you think you can get some sleep?”

“No, but as long as you don’t go anywhere, I guess I can try.”

Steve changed positions, leaning back into the arm of the couch and letting Bucky rest between his legs. He pressed his hand Bucky’s head, his other arm wrapping around Bucky’s chest. “Focus on your breathing. In and out through your nose. Listen to my heartbeat.”

Despite the heartache, Steve’s lips quirked up. A lifetime ago, their positions would have been reversed, Steve’s head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin, his weak-boned body rattling like it’d fall apart. He always thought it would, one day, but it never did. All because Bucky held him together.

“Do you remember when you used to do this for me?” Steve asked. “I’d get so worked up, I’d start coughing, and you held me and talked me down.”

“Told Clint that story,” he mumbled. “Was panicking in the bathtub. Talked ‘im down.” Bucky paused, his voice nearly breaking. “I miss him, Stevie.”

Steve tensed, Bucky’s remorse a punch to the gut. “I know you do. I know.”

He murmured and soothed until Bucky slept, the hitching in his breath evening out. An hour passed before Steve moved them to the bedroom, nestling Bucky against him. Steve longed to rest, too, but as he reached for his tablet, he knew his night had barely begun.

 

*

 

The SHIELD files provided little Steve didn’t already know. 

_Clinton Francis Barton, born June 18, year redacted._  
Height, weight, hair and eye colors.  
Assets: sharp-shooting, espionage, multi-lingual.  
Facts on range, schematics on specialty arrows.  
Completed missions, most dispatched alongside Agent Romanoff.  
Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S  
Agent Barton’s involvement in the Chitarui invasion, redacted. 

Steve cringed. Clint’s mental health evaluation and the subsequent therapy session notes followed, sealed. He closed the screen and pulled up another, checking the progress on his hack. Technology may have thrown him when he’d first come out of the ice, but he learned quickly and knew how to use knowledge to his advantage. The dark web spread out on the screen. At first, he’d chalk the whole “dark side of the internet” thing up to Natasha poking fun at him for being “old” and naive, but he’d learned to access it after the data dump stunt. It’d been one of the first places he’d tried to dig up information on Bucky.

He glanced down. Bucky’d been asleep for for eight hours, head cradled against Steve’s chest. Not once had he stirred, and as Steve returned his focus to the screen, that knife-edge of guilt pressed into him, even as the files came up one by one. He _knew_ Clint; had watched stupid movies with him, gone out to dinner, celebrated his birthday, and done a dozen other mundane things that mattered because he’d spent that time with people he liked. Bucky adored Clint, and Steve knew Clint adored Bucky right back. Who didn’t? They anchored each other, and Steve had always been a little jealous of how well they thrived.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much, why every file he failed to disprove fueled his anger and stung like salt rubbed into his wounds. Because _Steve_ had needed that anchor, too. He wanted friends. And as much as he loved Natasha, she had own her agenda to take care of, and Sam had his work with the VA. 

And yes, all Steve needed was the man currently sleeping at his side, but . . . he’d wanted friends this time. 

That’s what left the bitter taste in his mouth, that it had happened not once but twice. First Rumlow, and now Clint. He’d opened himself up only to receive a knife in back, but this. He’d opened himself up, let Clint into his _family_ , let him close. And more than Steve wanting that anchor, he’d wanted it for _Bucky_ , who’d suffered, who’d fought so hard for this life, who’d found a home and brought Steve with him, who’d asked him hours ago to be put back on ice. A punishment he didn’t deserve, self-inflicted because he believed he’d betrayed his friend and feared he’d do the same again to the man he loved. 

Steve reached up to stroke Bucky’s hair. They hadn’t bothered with showers, and dust puffed up as he scratched at Bucky’s scalp. Bucky didn’t move, his breathing deep and even. Steve’d be damned if he let that knife run through his heart. Smothering the tiny spark of guilt that lit behind his chest, Steve pressed on.

Hydra’s files plastered the dark web, if one know where to look. Steve spent another hour cracking the encoded files and earned surveillance footage and a dossier in return. The dossier proved to be more of the same reel the handler had shown him, various images, logs, mission reports. Most of it looked similar to their reports on the Soldier, save where those had been dictated by Bucky’s captors, these reports were filled in by the same hand that signed them _C. Barton_.

The same hand that also signed off as _Hawkeye_.

“Oh, fuck,” Steve breathed. Every file matched the ones he’d seen in that underground station, and the harder Steve search for evidence of tampering or doctoring, the more nothing he found. 

The video clip showed the alley fight from two days early, from the moment Bucky’s programming had been triggered to their escape from the alley. As Steve watched Clint and Bucky fight side-by-side, a distant memory floated to the surface of his mind, one in which Bucky had taught him to fight. He’d come home with one too many black eyes and his ma started worrying, so Buck promised to help him. They practiced often, but that first day, he’d landed a punch square to Bucky’s jaw and Bucky beamed at him.

When they’d fought on the bridge, muscle memory knew Steve’s opponent before he did.

And watching the fight, the way the two of them moved around each other, Steve caught that same familiarity. Like they’d been made for each other. And hell, Clint could command the Soldier. Steve himself didn’t have the stomach for it, but Clint had done it. 

More than once.

The last of Steve’s hurt and guilt transmuted into anger, slow burning and hot. The federal database information had been redacted. The remainder of the SHIELD files: redacted. A rogue mission report for a hired assassination slipped through, again attributed to _Hawkeye_.

“God fucking dammit,” Steve swore. He nearly threw his tablet across the room, but somehow managed to set it on the nightstand instead. Part of him wanted to get up, to pace, to _hit something_ (some _one_ , specifically), but moving meant waking Bucky, and Bucky needed to rest. 

How the fuck could Steve begin to explain? He’d been Bucky’s friend long enough to know that once you were in, Bucky stayed loyal until he died. If Steve came to him with this . . . Either Bucky would refuse to believe it, or it’d absolutely kill him. Neither option eased Steve’s heartache, nor did settling for the third choice—not telling Bucky at all. He’d have to. But perhaps he could buy more time. 

Bucky slept soundly, which was miracle enough; Steve prayed he’d change his mind about the ice, felt reasonably sure he would, and made a selfish wish that sleep would do him a good turn as well. He’d look again. He’d comfort his love, make sure that precious heart kept beating, and figure out how to stop it from breaking.


	3. Three

Steve dozed for a couple hours, waking every so often to reassure himself that Bucky slept beside him, safe and sound, if not completely whole. That fucking film reel played behind his eyes, and his heart sank further every time he looked at the man he loved, resting but not at ease. Tension knotted Bucky’s shoulders, the plates of his metal arm clicking together softly. Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead and waited for the sun to rise. After a moment, he picked up his tablet.

All the horrors he’d uncovered still sat on the screen, and he bowed his head in defeat. He read through it all again (because self-torture might as well be his middle name), and began his third pass when Bucky, finally, woke. Steve’s heart leapt before it came crashing back down, and he tried not to let the cacophony into his voice as he curled an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Hey there, sweetheart. How’re you feeling?”

Bucky buried his face against Steve’s side. “Tired. How long have I been out?”

“Almost thirty-six hours,” Steve answered. “I moved us to the bedroom. Didn’t want to wake you, but thought you’d be more comfortable here.”

A soft chuckle ghosted across his skin, and Steve felt hope spark anew when Bucky replied, “Always said I was good in bed.”

Steve let himself smile, a small, fragile thing. 

“Did you get any sleep? I didn’t keep you up, did I?”

He could have wept for how normal it was, Bucky waking up and teasing, Bucky snuggling into him, still warm and soft from sleep. Steve realized Bucky hadn’t remembered, yet. But he would. And this precious bubble around them would burst. He didn’t wait for the shock, for the renewed pain. “Yeah, I did. I slept a bit, read a couple things. Put some affairs in order.” Steve closed the cover on his tablet. “I was about to call T’Challa.”

He wasn’t. He’d made no plans, hadn’t done a damn thing but work himself up because being angry meant he could ignore the soul-crushing pain of hurting the man he loved. And though Steve had proven himself an excellent liar in the past, he’d never been able to lie to Bucky, from the important shit to where he’d gotten the money to buy Bucky penny candy for his birthday when they were kids. And because Steve couldn’t lie, Steve chose to say nothing and the silence stretched and Steve wished he could read Bucky’s mind.

But then Bucky pushed himself up and nuzzled the side of Steve’s neck. “Can you call Doc instead? See if she can fit me in for another session?”

Relief hit him so hard he almost sobbed. He knew Bucky heard it. “Sure. Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“I wanna stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Bucky nodded. “I hope I didn’t fuck up your plans, Steve.”

Air filled Steve’s lungs for the first time in days, sweet and pure. He’d prayed during that long night, for the first time in years, for a yet another miracle, and apparently whatever god stood listening hadn’t grown sick of his shit because this, _this_ , was fulfillment, one more thing Steve would prove he deserved.

And because he couldn’t lie to Bucky, Steve told him the truth. He crooked a finger beneath Bucky’s chin and leaned down for a kiss, lingering and sweet. “I didn’t make any plans. I was hoping you’d change your mind.”

Bucky kissed him back. “Punk.”

“Jerk.” Steve couldn’t help it. He wriggled down beside Buck and pressed close, brushing his nose along Bucky’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“For going to therapy?”

“For not giving up,” Steve said, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Maybe later, when Bucky felt better, he’d let Steve wash it for him. Bucky loved it when Steve washed his hair. “I know it’s hard sometimes, and you can’t always see your progress, but you’ve come so far, Buck. And no matter what happens, I’m on your side. We’ll get through this together.”

The love in Bucky’s eyes nearly killed him. “Would you really have gone with me?”

Steve nodded. “You know I would.”

He closed his eyes as Bucky brushed his thumb against his lower lip then curled his fingers against the back of Steve’s neck. Their peace lasted another second before jerked back, fully awake. “Clint.”

“What about him?” Goddamn it, too casual.

“We have to call the hospital. I need to know he’s okay. Why haven’t you called?”

“You were my concern,” Steve said, honest as he could. That was not a lie. He could do this if he thought laterally. “I thought you’d feel better if I called when you were awake.”

“I’m awake,” Bucky deadpanned. “Well?”

Fucking hell, Steve hated lying. He hid his grimace as he reached for his phone. “It’s not like I can call the front desk. We didn’t admit him, so he’ll be a John Doe. Luckily, I know someone who might be able to help.” And he did. If Claire answered.

“Or we can, you know, _go to the hospital_.”

Steve cringed. Of course Bucky wanted to see Clint. He’d be as bent on seeing him as he’d been about getting Clint to the hospital. Bucky needed something Steve couldn’t provide. Something Steve couldn’t risk. “I don’t . . . That’s not a good idea, Buck.” He cleared his throat, pressed the call button, and put the phone to his ear.

Bucky got out of bed. A few minutes later, Steve heard the shower start. So much for that. Claire answered on the third ring, and by the time Bucky returned, Steve had a report on Clint (in the ICU, still unconscious), and a new SHIELD file on Clint’s assassinations. Turned out bird boy served as a hired gun.

He didn’t look up when Bucky turned out the bathroom light. “Did you find him? Is it bad?”

Steve’s lips thinned. “Yeah.” It wasn’t until he heard the high-pitched whine Bucky made that Steve realized what he’d said. Horrified, he set the tablet down and reached out for him. “Oh, no. God, no, Buck. Claire found him. He’s in the ICU, but stable.”

Bucky collapsed into him, boneless. Steve explained what he’d learned, knowing Bucky needed that reassurance. Clint would be okay. He tucked Bucky back into bed, wrestling with what he knew and what Bucky wanted. Steve couldn’t dissuade Bucky from going to the hospital, but he could delay it.

A soft touch against his hair startled him, and Steve leaned into Bucky.

“I’m sorry, baby. I know I scared you.”

And Steve’s nerves were so raw that little kindness broke him entirely. “I’ve never been so fucking afraid in my life, Buck. Never thought anything would be worse than watching you fall, but seeing them torture you and not being able to stop it . . . And I tried, Bucky. I tried.”

Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing to stop the tears, or patch the way his voice cracked. All he heard again was Bucky asking Clint to do the impossible, the unthinkable . . . He heard himself speak but couldn’t decipher the words. Bucky kept hold of him as Steve let himself fall apart.

Then he tilted his head up and caught Bucky’s lips, letting Bucky in, the soft flick of Bucky’s tongue against his own, overlaid with taste of tears. It was like the first kisses they’d shared after Bucky defrosted, after Bucky asked if he was still Steve’s sweetheart (as if that would ever change, as if Steve’s heart could beat for someone else when that heart had always been Bucky’s), and Steve vowed never to take a single one for granted.

“I love you,” he muttered. “You’re my everything, Bucky. Without you, I’m . . . I’m lost.”

“It ain’t the end of the line, Stevie. You still have me.” Bucky set Steve’s head against his chest, letting Steve feel his heartbeat. “See? I’m right here, and I’m not the only one who could use some rest.” 

Steve nuzzled into him, needing for himself what he’d given Buck earlier. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” Bucky dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you, Steve.”

And this time, Steve slept hard, letting himself be small and weak in Bucky’s arm. As if that had ever changed, either.

 

*

 

Stalling worked only so long. Steve had yet to figure what—or if—he’d tell Bucky; he wished he had more information, more evidence, more _time_ , but Buck insisted on going to the hospital and no force on earth would stop him. Steve hadn’t intended to lie. He’d run the scenarios through his head repeatedly, hating each one in equal measure.

Scenario one: Bucky refused to believe him. Of course, Steve couldn’t believe it himself, but Buck would never consider it a possibility. Scenario one branched into two outcomes. Either Steve was proven wrong (and a complete asshole), or Clint proved him right, which would break Bucky’s heart in a way Steve wasn’t sure he could repair. 

Scenario two: Bucky did believe him. And what then? His tactical abilities failed him completely.

At least if Steve was wrong (please let him be wrong), he’d take that burden on himself. Of course, that still didn’t answer the question of what the fuck he planned to do, so he did the only thing he could think of: he continued stalling. Breakfast provided excellent distraction, and as he poured a cup of tea for Bucky (coffee rattled his nerves too much), he wondered if they could have a nice morning before they headed to the hospital.

Because they were heading to the hospital, even if Bucky suffered an anxiety attack simply looking at the front door, let alone passing through it. They were going because Bucky needed it, and even if Steve could convince Bucky Clint might be the enemy, Bucky would _still_ need to see him. Drawing in a deep breath, Steve picked up the plate and mug and headed for their bedroom. 

Bucky had cocooned himself in the blankets, but he was awake and watching Steve with tired eyes. Wriggling upright, he didn’t touch the plate but took the mug, holding it between his hands and burying his face in the steam. Steve knew he wouldn’t touch the food (a lingering effect of his disordered eating), but at least the toast and eggs were there if Bucky wanted them. Much to Steve’s surprise, Bucky picked up the toast and nibbled at it.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Steve asked, sitting on the side of the bed.

Bucky shrugged. “Sick. Anxious. But I wanna go, Stevie.”

“We’re gonna go this afternoon. I’m waiting for Claire to call.” Claire promised to call when Clint regained consciousness. Not that Steve had checked his phone. Bucky’s health remained his priority. Bucky nodded, dropping the rest of the toast back on the plate. One-third was better than nothing. At least he drank the tea; Steve had slipped some extra supplements into it. 

He deserved something nice, Steve thought, especially if the afternoon went badly. “Buck?” Bucky blinked at him, and then drained the last of the tea from the mug before sitting it down on the plate. Steve reached for his hands, flesh and metal equally precious. He rubbed his thumbs across Bucky’s knuckles. “Tell me what I can do for you. What do you need?”

Bucky squeezed his hands, offering him a sad smile. Steve’s heart clenched; he’d wanted Bucky to be done with those smiles. There’d been too many.

“Can you take care of my arm?” Bucky asked, tugging with his left.

“Of course.” Steve opened the drawer in Bucky’s nightstand and removed the small cleaning kit he stored there. Bucky let the blanket slide off his shoulder and moved back, making space for Steve to sit on his left. The wear and tear from the previous days marred the metal, the scar tissue along the edges red and swollen in places. Steve touched him, gently tracing the seam. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky shook his head. “Muscles ache, but the arm is okay.”

“Do you want me to touch you? Work out the knots before I take care of your arm?”

In response, Bucky let the rest of the blanket fall from his shoulders, exposing his back. Steve set the kit aside and placed his palms on Bucky’s shoulders. He couldn’t work the left side, but Bucky held all his tension in his neck, and that Steve could help. He pressed the muscles on either side of Bucky’s neck, dragging his fingers downward, between his shoulder blades, before sliding his thumbs back up and across his shoulders. Fraction by fraction, Bucky relaxed, tipping his head forward. Steve worked up to the base of Bucky’s skull, threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair and over his scalp. His breathing evened out, and Steve smiled, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. 

Steve picked up the kit again and set to work on the metal arm, cleaning the groves between the plates and polishing as he went. Bucky kept his head down, letting Steve take care of him, so when he spoke, Steve almost dropped his tools. 

“What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Steve stammered. His heart leapt into his throat, choking off his words.

“You’re quiet. When you’re anxious, you talk too much. When you’re angry, you don’t say a word. Bottle everything up and let it rile you. So what’s wrong?”

Sitting behind him meant Bucky couldn’t see his face, but Steve knew Bucky wouldn’t need to. His hesitation spoke volumes. Steve kept his attention on Bucky’s hand, on every plate, on every finger. “I . . . Bucky, I don’t know. I don’t know enough to say there’s a problem or there isn’t.” He sighed, the guilt twisting between his ribs like a knife. He brought Bucky’s hand to his mouth, kissed the palm. “I hope there isn’t.”

He heard Bucky swallow, knew the sound of him licking his lips. “Is it me? Did I do something, Stevie?”

“No,” Steve answered, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. He kept his voice low, soothing. “It’s not you. We’re fine, I promise. I . . . I’m trying to figure out the right thing.”

Bucky turned, pulling Steve in for a kiss. “You’ll figure it out. You know you can tell me anything.”

And damn it, he wanted to. The words almost slipped out, a jumbled rush of _ifs_ and _maybes_ caught in the tide of his need to keep Bucky safe from harm, to heal his wounds and undo every ill that befell him. 

The phone rang on the nightstand and Steve answered. Clint was awake, more or less. And there was no pretending Bucky hadn’t heard, no way to delay it just a little longer. Steve helped Bucky dress, bundling him up against the cold, feeling him shake as they neared the front door. Bucky tucked his arms around his chest, drawing in long, measured breaths before letting Steve guide him outside.

By the time the cab reached the hospital, Steve had to keep hold of Bucky to control his trembling. The florescent hospital light made him appear gaunt, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes even two days of sleep hadn’t managed to erase. He stuck close, desperately holding himself together. 

Steve couldn’t help it. He pulled Bucky to him, holding on for dear life, wishing he could take away the fear that once again settled into Bucky’s bones. In the midst of his own struggle, the anger sparked anew. Bucky’s progress over the last year astounded him, magnified his thankfulness, blessed him with every moment he spent watching Bucky become himself again. And yes, he wasn’t the boy he’d grown up with, the man he fought beside, but he wasn’t entirely different, and hell, they’d both changed, both _been_ changed, but the parts that remained where the ones that mattered most, the curve of Bucky’s smirk and the way he held Steve tucked beneath his chin and the familiar rhythm of his heart.

And how, after everything, they loved each other just as fiercely, with all of who they’d been and all of who they were now.

Bucky smiled and laughed. He danced, and cooked, and teased Steve as relentlessly as ever. He’d taken to the world with ease and faced down his fears, his depression, his anxiety. And even when he felt weak, he trusted in Steve’s strength, his warmth, and took the bad days in stride with the good ones. There’d been so many good ones.

Gently, Bucky pushed him away, inclining his head toward the door. Clint rested on the other side, likely hooked into IVs and monitors, and Steve hated that his first thought was _He’s not a physical threat_ instead of _I’m glad he’s all right_.

He opened the door and found exactly what he’d expected. Clint lay still, one monitor reading his heart rate, one his oxygen, a IV drip and what he assumed to be a morphine drip attached to his arm. He looked up as they entered. Bucky curled his shoulders forward and pressed himself as far from Clint as possible without being back in the hall. 

“Are you okay?” Steve whispered.

Bucky nodded, and Steve, reluctantly, let him go. “Hey, Barton.”

“Hey,” Clint answered, glancing between them.

Steve knew he didn’t look pleased. Bucky had called him on it, of course. Steve kept quiet when he was pissed. 

He was fucking furious. 

Every good thing Bucky had, he’d work his ass off for. Multiple therapy sessions a week between different doctors, different specialties, dealing with the present, his past, the memories that resurfaced, the physical, mental, emotional trauma, the sexual abuse and how he’d hated telling Steve, how his fear broke Steve’s heart all over again. How after all of that, Bucky not only survived, but pulled himself back together, piece by fractured piece, and built himself up, built himself a life. Created a space for himself and for Steve. That he wanted Steve at all still struck him as the biggest goddamn miracle, that they’d woken in an impossible future they could share, openly. That, of all things, Bucky had taken up yoga and loved it (and Steve loved his habit of walking around in those tight yoga pants and tank tops).

He didn’t hear what Bucky said, too focus on Clint, on what it would mean if he’d betrayed them. Protecting Bucky was his sole reason for existence, and Steve refused to let Hydra—let _Clint_ —destroy what Bucky so dearly deserved. His brain kicked into overdrive as Bucky made to step forward. Steve put his arm out, blocking his progress. He knew his expression was unkind. He meant it to be. All mercy had burned out of him back in 1944, on a train careening through the Alps, the day his world fell away.

Standing still in the hospital, he felt the metal carriage rolling beneath his feet once more. Steve planted himself in the way of history’s fabled repetition. It wouldn’t take his world a second time. Not now. Not ever.

“You wanna tell me why Hydra was claiming you as their own, then?”


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've retconned the last bit of chapter nine of [Tell Me Nothing But Lies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12200094/chapters/29185671) because what happens here changed from what I orignally planned. If you haven't read it yet, please do.

Bucky took a deep breath and gently removed Clint’s hand from his before turning back to Steve. A lifetime together assured him that Bucky held his anger in check, but it was no less present. He’d always been hardpressed to yell, but Steve felt it, way Bucky’s mouth pressed flat and his jaw tightened. He rose from the chair and crossed the room, grabbing Steve’s wrist with his right hand. Steve opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but Bucky opened the door and pulled Steve through. “Not a word.”

Steve kept quiet as he followed Bucky down the halls and into an empty patient lounge. He motioned for Steve to sit and he did, fists clenched on his knees. Fighting had always been Steve’s first reaction when backed into a corner, and though anger coursed through him, the rage had subsided, cooling in the wake of his actions. Bucky stared at him, expression unreadable. After a moment, Bucky sat in the chair beside his. “Okay,” he said, calm and quiet. “Start talking.”

And, having been invited, Steve forgot the point he’d been about to make in Clint’s room. He swallowed. Bucky may not yell, but he wasn’t patient. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he started, for lack of a better place to begin.

Bucky nodded once, looking down at his hands before raising his head to meet Steve’s eyes. “Do you know why I’m angry?”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” Steve answered. He knew. More than that. “Because I didn’t tell you when you asked me what was wrong.”

“That’s right. So now that everything’s out in the open, how about you tell me now.”

Slowly, he loosened his hands. This wasn’t a fist fight, but a conversation. Steve ached from the pressure as much as from the loss of something familiar, grounding. “I didn’t know _how_ , Buck. I thought by not saying anything, I could protect you.”

“I know why you did it, Steve,” Bucky said, voice still gentle. “I’m a mess. I’m better than I was three days ago, but I’ve relapsed. I feel it, you see it, and the thought that someone close to us—close to me—could put me at risk scares you more than anything. And when you’re terrified, you panic, and when you can’t control that panic, you get angry.” He reached for Steve’s hands, tucking his fingers beneath Steve’s. The rest of Steve’s anger fizzled out at the soft caress of Bucky’s thumbs across the tops of his hands. “I’m not angry that you accused Clint of being Hydra or questioned his loyalty, though I think we can both acknowledge that yelling at a bedridden ICU patient was not your finest moment.” 

At that, Steve hung his head. It really hadn’t been.

“And I’m hardly surprised Hydra threw a bunch of files at you and said, hey, the enemy’s been with you all along.” He leaned in, almost close enough to kiss. “I know they made you watch, Steve. I saw you through the glass.” Bucky moved his right hand to tilt Steve’s head up. “But I _am_ hurt that you felt you couldn’t come to me with this. That you kept it all inside and wound yourself up until you lashed out. Did you think I wouldn’t believe you, or that I wouldn’t listen?”

That had been exactly what Steve thought, as his heart broke into jagged pieces at the thought of losing Bucky in every horrible way imaginable. He hadn’t _wanted_ any of this, but once sprouted, he couldn’t uproot the notion that this friendship had been a lie. Betrayal wasn’t new to him, wasn’t some unfathomable idea because it had happened before. “I didn’t know how to start,” Steve said again, shoulders collapsing forward.

“‘Hey, Buck, I’m not sure how to say this, but while Hydra held me captive, they showed me some information about Clint. I didn’t want to mention it while you were upset, not without checking into it, but I did some research and I can’t disprove a lot of what they said. What do you think we should do?’” Bucky answered. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, Steve. We could have made a plan. Together.”

The disappointment in Bucky’s eyes doused the last of Steve’s rage. He sagged in his chair, drained beyond exhaustion without fury to keep him upright. “Keeping you safe and happy is what I’m meant for,” he murmured. “I couldn’t stop them from strapping you to the table, I couldn’t keep them from trying to control you, and I feared I couldn’t keep you here, with me. It seems I’ve made a career of watching you fall and failing to catch you, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Bucky cupped both hands to Steve’s face, one cool, one warm, and Steve leaned into Bucky’s metal palm. He’d never been afraid of it, never hated it because it was part of Bucky, no matter how it’d happened, and Bucky stroked his cheekbone, taking Steve’s weight and holding him dear. “Steve, it is not your job to keep me well. That is my job, and one I do for me so that I can be well _with_ you. I’m your partner, your best friend, your confidante. You can always come to me and I will always listen. There are no sides to choose because I’m always on yours.”

Something cracked behind Steve’s ribs, sharp and painful. For a moment, his lungs failed him, as they had his entire life, and breathing became a stilted, impossible task. His body gave in, and Steve wondered—not for the first time—if the effects of the serum were temporary, if his borrowed time would run out and he’d return to being weak-limbed and sickly. His body ached as badly as it had in Stark’s vita-chamber, and he remembered that after the ache came the agony.

But warmth came instead, enveloping him entirely, accompanied by a familiar voice whispering sweetly, the vibration reaching down to soothe his bones. Bucky’s hand rested on the back of Steve’s neck. He couldn’t remember falling forward, but Bucky had caught him, tucking Steve’s head beneath his chin like he used to, granting Steve his strength. Buck had always given him that: strength and safety, reassurance. The room spun, and Steve clung to Bucky like a man drowning, grasping blindly for salvation. 

It was only when Bucky tightened his embrace that Steve realized he was trembling. Nausea rolled through him and he closed his eyes, burying his face in Bucky’s neck. He wasn’t trapped in Erskine’s magic box, but in his tent the night of the fall, in the bar days later, trying to drink himself to death, crying so hard he ran out of tears, the pain in his chest overwhelming. Steve had been damn certain he’d die right then and there, his heart split in two, and half of it missing. Sick didn’t begin to describe how he felt, then or now. He wanted to lie down in a dark, dark room and never get up, to be quiet, to be still. 

Bucky’s voice found him in the dark. “Stevie? C’mon, Steve. I’m right here, babydoll. Come back to me.” 

Steve caught the worry in it, used it drag himself back up toward the surface. Buck had protected him his whole life; it was Steve’s job to return that kindness. He couldn’t do it curled up in Bucky’s arms. Steve’s body refused to cooperate, the shaking growing worse.

“Honey, listen to me,” Bucky said. “Can you hear me?” Steve nodded. “Good. Do you remember how I used to get nervous and jittery whenever I was outta the apartment too long, when it was real bad after I came out of cryo? Or how some days I couldn’t get out of bed, not even to brush my teeth, or how I’d be scared for no reason? I think that’s what’s happening to you. This is anxiety. You can’t catch your breath, right? Feels like an asthma attack?”

He nodded again. Bucky stroked his hair, fingers working against his scalp.

“We know how to handle that, don’t we, babydoll. Keep your eyes closed. Focus on your breathing. In for three, out for three.”

Steve’s breath came in shallow, shaking gasps, but he tried to shift his focus on drawing air in slowly, keeping to Bucky’s count. He didn’t know how long it took, but it felt like hours before his lungs stopped shuddering. Bucky held him close and Steve did his best to mirror Bucky’s breathing. Another minute passed before Bucky spoke again.

“Good, that’s it. I’ve got you, Stevie. When you feel ready, open your eyes for me. Name three things in this room.”

Pillowing his head on Bucky’s shoulder, Steve turned and slowly opened his eyes. The lights burned too bright, but Bucky’s hand came up to shield him. Three things. Steve could breathe now; this should be easy. “Chair. Television. Coffee machine.”

“What do you hear? Can you pick out three sounds?”

“Clock ticking. Nurses outside.” He rested his hand on Bucky’s chest. “Heartbeat.”

“Very good.” He pressed a kiss to Steve’s hair. “We’re gonna take another minute, then we’re gonna stand up, okay?”

Steve moved his legs little, sitting upright in the chair. Bucky kept his left hand on Steve’s back, not urging, not pushing, but grounding. Sniffling, Steve rolled his shoulders back, opening his aching chest. Part of him expected a narrow ribcage failing to open, followed by vicious coughing he couldn’t control. His lungs filled more easily now (though not effortlessly), and the nameless terror began to subside. When Bucky asked him to stand, Steve did, his knees holding his weight. Bucky remained at his side, a hand against Steve’s back, the other below his ribs.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

“Better,” Steve mumbled, darting his tongue to lick at dry lips. He could drink a gallon of water and still be thirsty. He wanted to lie down. “Thank you.”

Concern lined Bucky’s face, worry deep in his stormy blue eyes. Steve thought again about drowning, felt the ice crystalize his blood. He closed his own eyes, giving his head a firm shake. “We’re gonna get you home, baby. I promised Clint I’d be here when he woke up, and I gotta keep that promise. As soon as he’s up and we’ve made sure he’s gonna be okay, we’re leaving.”

“Buck, I don’t think I should.” Steve’s shoulders drooped again. “Not after-“

“Come sit with me until he wakes up. We’ll take it from there.” He reached both hands up to smooth Steve’s hair, pausing to cradle the back of his neck. “I’m not angry with you, Steve. I love you, and whatever happens next, we’re going to face it together.” 

Bucky brushed a sweet kiss across Steve’s lips before letting him go, lacing their fingers together. They left the tiny lounge and found Clint still asleep in his bed. Bucky sank down against the wall and Steve followed, resting his head in Bucky’s lap. Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Steve knew he couldn’t sleep. Bucky took a slim book out of his jacket, and Steve glanced up at him.

“Will you read to me? Like you used to when I was sick?”

“Yeah, Stevie. Of course, I will.”

Steve had no idea which book it was and didn’t care. He didn’t listen to the words, but let himself drift to the cadence of Bucky’s voice, the sound wrapping around him like a blanket.

 

*

 

He came to at the feeling of Bucky rubbing circles against his back. Steve’s shoulder had stiffened from his position on the floor and he’d developed a crick in his neck, but the terrible weight on his chest no longer crushed his ribs. He didn’t feel _better_ , but he could function. Steve sat up and Bucky pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, honey,” Bucky said. “Did you get some rest?”

“A little.” Steve leaned into him, grateful for his warmth, for the fact that Bucky hadn’t stopped touching him, had stayed close. “How’s Clint?”

“He’s all right. The nurse put him under, but he’s starting to wake up. They’ll release him in a couple days, after they get him off the drugs and he can walk without falling over.”

Steve raised to his head to look at Clint for the first time since they re-entered the room. It would take a while for all of his injuries to mend, for the bruises to fade and for Clint to lose the dark circles beneath his eyes. If not for the morphine, Clint probably wouldn’t sleep at all. Steve read the stress lines at the corners of Clint’s eyes, regretting having put them there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but Steve couldn’t decide who the apology was for.

Clint didn’t answer, but Bucky did. “I know, honey. I’m sure Clint knows, too. You were looking out for me, and I know how much it hurt to think our friend betrayed us.”

From the bed, Clint’s breathing changed from the deep pull of restful sleep to wakefulness. Steve flinched. 

“You can stay, Steve,” Bucky whispered.

No. Bucky deserved time with his friend without Steve and his accusations hovering nearby. One by one, Steve forced all his edges back down. “No, Buck. I’ll wait in the hall, and when you’re ready to go, I’ll call us a cab.” He pushed himself to his feet and stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put this on you. I’m just tired.”

“Steve,” Bucky started, standing as well, but Steve shook his head.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. We . . . we can talk about this later. You shouldn’t have to carry my stress, too.”

“Steve.” Bucky gripped Steve’s arm, turning him around and then taking hold of both shoulders. His concern had worsened, and Steve kicked himself for having put it there at all. Bucky had taken care of him his whole life; Steve was supposed to be returning that kindness. 

Behind that worry burned determination and love. Bucky had never given up on him, either. “You are not a burden and I can carry whatever you need to give me. I’m strong enough to hold it. I won’t make you stay, but I can’t let you walk out that door without knowing you won’t spiral.”

Leaning forward, Steve kissed the tip of Bucky’s nose. “I’m all right, Buck. Saw a vending machine a couple halls back. I’m gonna grab a snack while you and Clint talk. I’ll even make dinner. Promise.” He hugged him, lingering longer than he intended.

Bucky wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t try to prevent Steve from leaving. He only muttered, “Like I’d let you into my kitchen,” before sitting in the chair beside the bed. “I love you, Steve.”

“Love you, too.” He paused, shifting his weight slightly before setting his heels back down. “Tell him he can stay with us. If he wants to,” he added.

Steve slipped out of the room and nearly doubled over. The thought of eating turned his stomach, and suddenly it was all he could do to stand the overly sterile scent of hospital. He made his way into the stairwell, struggling to suppress his nausea. Bucky wouldn’t be long; Clint had to rest, even if the nurses didn’t come by to drug him, and Bucky couldn’t stay away from the apartment for more than a couple hours. Steve had to admit, going home and never leaving again sounded pretty goddamn appealing.

 

*

 

All Steve wanted to do when they got back to the apartment was crawl into bed and stay there. Instead, he helped Bucky make dinner (though he couldn’t tell you what they made because even though he ate two servings, he’d tasted none of it) and waited for the other shoe to drop. In Steve’s opinion, he’d pulled himself together nicely, stitched up all the gashes, filed down the jagged edges, staunched his bleeding heart. He’d packed everything away, needles and razors and all, and to the nurses, the cab driver, the people on the streets, he appeared an average man—maybe bearing a resemblance to that Captain America guy—but at home, where the masks came off and Steve had no where to hide, Bucky knew better. Read everything from the way he moved (too at ease, too practiced) to the twitch of the muscles along his jaw and the way his shoulders curled in memory of a crooked spine and smaller stance. Buck had always been his shield; he had decades of practice spying every chink in Steve’s armor, be it Kevlar or tin.

When Bucky took his seat on the couch beside him, Steve expected anything but the silence that followed. Bucky had worn down, the evidence of the past three days faded nearly to nothing but the dark circles beneath his eyes deeper. Yet under the stress, that steel and determination remained. A weak smile pulled the corner of Steve's mouth: he’d always had a thing for a tough-as-hell, take-no-shit brunets. 

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. Normal had to start somewhere. “So, is Clint staying with us?”

“Yeah. I told him we’d sleep on the couch. He’s gonna fight me on that, but I think we both learned he can’t overpower me,” Bucky answered, bitter humor laced through his tone. “It’ll only be a couple days.”

Steve nodded. “We’ve slept on worse. That murphy bed in our apartment. Lumpy mattress, a broken box spring, and that thing was definitely never meant for two people.”

“Rocky ground in thin tents, thin bedrolls, threadbare blankets. Sleeping in snow.” Bucky tapped his socked foot against the coffee table. “Know what I miss? Pillow forts.”

“I think if we build a pillow fort, Clint will want in.”

Bucky caught his eye, his expression open and earnest. “So why don’t we build one tonight? Be just like the old days. You and me. We’ll stay up all night talking about nothing.”

Steve’s heart melted straight through its wrappings and dripped warm down his ribs as he nodded. The first time they’d built a fort was the day they’d met. Bucky had brought Steve home after the school bullies had beat him down, and for some reason, Bucky decided to keep him. They’d constructed dozens more between their two homes, miniature sanctuaries occasionally graced by Bucky’s ma’s cookies.

As he stripped their couch and helped Bucky moved chairs, blankets, and pillows, Steve remembered the other forts. The one Buck built when Steve’s ma had gotten sick, and the one he’d made a few weeks after she’d died. They’d been seventeen, and Buck had railed at Steve for putting himself down, for thinking himself unworthy of love and kindness. And Steve, being Steve, goaded Bucky into kissing him. It had been graceless and terrible, smashed lips and nervous jitters and hands awkwardly fumbling for purchase, but it had been Steve’s first, and therefore the memory glowed in absolute perfection. 

Of course, the subsequent kisses had been better, and Steve more often then not insisted on practicing once he felt assured that Bucky wasn’t going anywhere, that he hadn’t ruined his one friendship, that Bucky wanted him as much as he’d wanted Bucky. 

There had been no more forts after that. Not ones made of blankets, and softness, and caresses.

The next time Steve built a fort (it was a pile of blankets and cushions, more nest than construct), he'd woken Bucky from cryo. They’d wrapped each other up and spent hours talking, and as the water evaporated and dried on Bucky’s skin, Steve felt himself defrosting, too. Coming out of the ice the first time hurt so bad, Steve thought he’d die because the only thing worse than freezing to death was thawing out alone.

Steve crawled onto the haphazard cushions, slipping under the mess of blankets as Bucky draped the last sheet over the entrance. He snuggled down beside Steve, pulling him into his arms, and Steve let Bucky hold him, surrendering completely. Bucky always gave him a place to land, a place to relax. Exhaustion made a home in Steve’s bones, and he was so very tired of being exhausted. He wanted sleep. He wanted rest. It had been agony, that first time, but then he’d had Bucky to hold on to, and knowing all his pieces might someday fit back together, that he had the biggest portion of his soul beside him, made it that much easier to crack the frost from his skin and open his eyes.

Bucky curled around him and Steve wondered if this time he could shake off the frost and hold on to what it meant to be warm.


End file.
